The Shoes

Her Cinderella shoes,

had tiny, black suede straps.

Her dress, full-skirted, midnight-blue, set off

the marquisate which sparkled at her neck.

Fragrant in Soir de Paris,

she seemed an angel to my childish eyes.

After her death, I wore her French lace stole

and glassy shoes.  Gained compliments.

It was never the same.

© Gill Dunstan

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